Ask Me No More
by De Fideli
Summary: "It is not the fear of dying that makes our lives so miserable, but in living so purposelessly that sooner or later, our death becomes nothing." [oneshot]


**This is based on the Alfred Lord Tennyson poem of the same name. To be honest, I don't quite know how to feel about this one, so tell me what you think.**

_Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;__  
__The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,__  
__With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;__  
__But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?__  
__Ask me no more._

It is either a strength or a weakness, a blessing or a curse—that Eponine Thenardier does not need to understand an idea in order to accept it. Perhaps, she has never expected illumination being raised from darkness. Familiarity, the comfort of knowledge; she knows not of these foreign ideas, so she accepts. She accepts when the heavens above part and when the ground beneath trembles.

When the idea of falling in the barricade finally settles into her system, she accepts it, and it comes much easier to her than it does to the others. The length of her life is an accomplishment; the other men, a misfortune. They, too, accept it, but the idea of their death is much more tragic.

Especially his; Enjolras' flame is still burning bright—it would be a great shame that he go down in violent flames. He had lit up even her dark world, and though many go with him, his absence will surely leave the universe much less illuminated.

She finds herself less accepting of his anticipated death than she does her own.

_Ask me no more: what answer should I give?__  
__I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:__  
__Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!__  
__Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;__  
__Ask me no more.__  
_

They fall; she does not fall numb to the pangs of sadness that surge through her chest when she hears their cries, watches them fall to the ground. She curses the bullet that immobilized her, still in her side. She knows she will, too, fall soon, but she almost wishes that the time arrives sooner than later. It is unfortunate enough that she must sit idly in her own pain, but to watch others even through blurry lenses is only unnecessary torture.

The only sight that alleviates her heartache is that of him unscathed; him, trying to pound on open doors while he supports his friends who are fading fast. She feels the cool wall of the alley shake as the barricade begins to give out with the aid of the canons. _He has nowhere to go_, she thinks.

No, she cannot accept that. Amongst all the misfortunes that she has taken with her head bowed down, this is not one of them. She gets up despite the searing pain, and when he nears the alley, she takes his hand and tugs on it.

He looks at her—they had never exchanged words, but he has always preached that every man is a friend. She almost finds humor in the thought, because she wonders if she falls in the category while clad in an oversized coat, a hat, and the still-tight bandaging of her chest that she now regrets with the burning of her wound. It will have to do for now.

But he shakes his head. "No," he says firmly. He makes it clear that he certainly will not abandon his friends and take the easy exit.

She returns with the most urgent plea in her eyes. "Please, monsieur," she begs him. "Your ideas will be trampled by your unnecessary death." She does not tell him that the she has never particularly thought much of his precious principles; she needs him to know that he is not worth a prideful death wish. "I cannot let you die."

He does not say anything, and her stance does not budge. She leads him through the veins of the city, and he wonders why she stayed if escape came this easy to her.

_Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd:__  
__I strove against the stream and all in vain:__  
__Let the great river take me to the main:__  
__No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;__  
__Ask me no more._

They fall to a state of strange acquaintance; she returns to the familiar gutter, but she wonders where he goes. She sees him around the city, his head down; he no longer has a flame, but an angry glow; he is more of the moon now, steady and present, iridescent, yet much too distant to even think about touching.

At night, he wanders the streets, and she watches him closely. The pain does not reach his face, but she can feel it in merely sharing his air. She knows he no longer wishes to live; she is much too familiar with that particular inner desire. She sees children scurrying along the streets and almost forgets that she cannot stop one to ask for the whereabouts of her brother. A bourgeois young man looks at her with such condescension, and she tries to remind herself that not all have such an unloving heart—but then she doubts that any more remain in Paris, for the barricade took away the rare breed.

When he walks dangerously close by the Seine as the moonlight dances in the current, she quietly walks up to him, her bare feet making no sound against the pavement. She reaches for his hand and tugs once more, and he looks down on her from the ledge, caught off guard. She is lucky he does not mistakenly—or intentionally—jump. "Madamoiselle," he says in surprise. "I was not trying to—"

"Don't lie to me, Monsieur," she cuts him off, and his shoulders fall dejectedly. She looks at the space on the ground beside her, expecting him to step off the hazardous place.

He frowns, and stays standing on the edge. "I did not want to be saved," he replies angrily, referencing both the present and the past. "You should have let me die."

She laughs hollowly. "Now you know the real plight of my people, Monsieur." she replies. "It is not the fear of dying that makes our lives so miserable, but in living so purposelessly that sooner or later, our death becomes nothing."

He stays silent for a moment, and then looks back down at her. "Then why must you have saved me?"

"Because your death, Monsieur, would not have meant as much as your life," she says gravely. "You are not finished. And if you die, their deaths will mean nothing as well."

He carries the heavy burden on his shoulders, but she extends her hand out once more and he looks down into the river longingly. It will hurt both to live and die. He finds it hypocritical that she, who knowingly signs up for her own demise, is willing him to delay his own.

"You are not like me," she says, reading his thoughts. "You have the gift to do much more than exist."

His left foot slides past the ledge, and she extends her hand even more. She understands his reasons—she knows how overcome he is with grief, and she admits she would consider doing the same if she were in his place.

But she cannot accept it.

"Please, monsieur, I cannot let you die."


End file.
